


The Lies I Weave

by immoral_crow



Series: This Ain't A Scene [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMFs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/pseuds/immoral_crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a liar. His life, his identity, everything he has is built on lies. The only person he won't lie to is himself, so what will happen when he runs into Arthur on a job in Afghanistan? And what would happen if Arthur was kidnapped? It’s not a traditional rescue, that’s for sure – but this is not a traditional romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lies I Weave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kansouame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kansouame/gifts).



_I'm a leading man  
And the lies I weave are oh so intricate, oh so intricate_

Eames has always considered himself to be a jack of all trades.

He never liked being pigeon-holed as a child, and it’s still not something he relishes. The fact that he makes a profitable living from exploiting the expectations people have of him eases the sting somewhat, but still. If there is one thing that Eames prides himself on, it is confounding expectations.

He wears his selfhood lightly, crafting something out of paisley and a plummy accent that is slightly foolish yet with an edge of ruthless _froideur_. Something unthreatening if you view it in the right light, _like a sleeping lion_ , he thinks sometimes.

It works well for him – lets him get close to people, though never too close – and he earns himself a reputation as someone who’s good to know, good to be on the right side of.

He’s careful to hide all the difficult parts – the violent, brilliant, analytical parts – deep down where no one will stumble across them, and when he hones his tools he does so in private, unwilling to let anyone see him perform until he’s chosen the mask he’ll wear while he’s doing it.

It’s a fine balancing act, maintaining the reputation of a useful man while not letting anyone get a glimpse of his full arsenal. If you want labels then he might call himself a thief, a forger, a military man, a gambler, a fixer… whatever you wanted to hear, but Eames doesn’t have much time for labels when he’s thinking about himself. They’re like pins, he thinks, something to keep you in place, static and knowable. Eames would much rather be lurking in the long grass, unseen, unrecognised, all coiled potential until the time is right to spring.

The skills are all just means to an end. Tools. Something he picks up or puts down depending on circumstance or whim.

Of course, since performing inception, Eames is coming dangerously close to gaining a specialism.

He resists it. Of course he does – how could he do anything else? But word inevitably spreads about their success, and the offers start to come in, and dreamshare is easy compared to some of the other jobs he does, so he cherrypicks the interesting jobs and his reputation grows.

Which is how he ends up in Kabul with the army, fighting on the side of right for once – if you can define “right” in terms of legality that is. Eames can’t, not quite, but the NCO is a guy he served with back in the day, and there is a tiny, secret part of Eames, the part that can count his real friends on the fingers of one hand and still have enough left over to flip someone off, that won’t let a friend down, so. Here he is, PASIV in one hand and passport in the other, waiting to be picked up outside the airport.

It’s busy, and after coming from Iceland (job, long story, don’t ask) he’s disorientated when he steps out into the sunlight. He stops for a second, blinks and tries to refocus, looking for the ride that Robbie had said would be waiting for him.

Which is when someone barrels into him, their hard suitcase catching Eames right in the back of his knee. He staggers and flails his arms, trying to keep his balance and overacting a bit to give himself a chance to assess the threat.

“So sorry,” he says, turning, every inch the genial English gent, only to find himself face to face with a familiar smirk.

“You know,” Arthur says. “I have never understood why the English apologise for things that aren’t their fault.”

“Breeding,” Eames says, his mouth on autopilot. “Possibly imperialist guilt or something. Arthur, what the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Arthur looks him up and down and the corners of his mouth twitch. “Vacation,” he says. “Yourself?”

Eames is so gobsmacked at the enormity of this falsehood that he gapes unattractively, which makes Arthur look smug. Which in turn makes Eames fume. Of course it would be Arthur who would catch him off guard. Clever Arthur, sharp Arthur. Arthur who plays exactly the opposite game to the one Eames plays. Relentlessly competent, every skill always on display. Eames feels the familiar itch under his skin, the desire to ruffle Arthur, to shake him, to…

“Work,” he says shortly, since Arthur probably knows already anyway. “A spot of consultation for the motherland, don’t you know.”

Arthur nods, as if Eames has confirmed his suspicions, and hefts his suitcase to his other hand. “Maybe I’ll run into you,” he says. “Out and about.”

Eames nods, and hears someone shouting his name. The name they are calling is not Eames, but Arthur just raises an eyebrow.

“Sounds like your ride is here,” he says. “I’d better not keep you.”

He smiles at Eames and is gone, melting into the crowd before Robbie reaches him and claps him on the shoulder. Eames knows the trick of that – had, in fact, taught it to Arthur when they were on an incredibly dull job together in Egypt – but it still makes him smile.

He has his suspicions about what Arthur is doing in Afghanistan, but they’re not confirmed for a few days.

He’s actually thinking about Arthur when the extractor for the job, a wet-behind-the-ears graduate recruit called Clive, stomps into the room. Eames wishes Arthur was here. Arthur has a very special touch with information, and Eames misses it most when he has to compile what he needs from raw data by himself. 

Anyway, he’s half concentrating on transcripts of phone calls that were made by the teenaged son of some war lord in the northern provinces and half wondering what he’d have to pay Arthur to get him to defect to the UK army when Clive flings himself down into the chair opposite Eames and sighs in a put-upon manner. 

Clive, Eames is very aware, wants to unburden himself about some imagined slight. Eames takes a second to miss Arthur even more before he puts his pen down and pastes a sympathetic expression on his face. 

“What’s up?” he asks, taking care to keep the sharp edges out of the question. It’s far too early in the job to antagonise anyone, not when they could be responsible for saving Eames’s life at some point. 

“There’s another bloody dreamshare team in town.” Clive’s face is flushed red, and Eames wonders whether his blood pressure needs monitoring. “We had some of the surveillance chaps watch them and I think they’re after our guy.”

“Interesting,” Eames says, feeling the pieces drop into place. “Who are they?”

“Bloody private sector.” Clive spits the words out with the self-righteous fury of a man who has never had to work both sides of a long con. “Yanks at that.”

Eames nods. “What do they want with our guy?” he asks. “I thought we were after info for a military strike?”

For the first time Clive deflates slightly. “We are,” he says, but he glances down, and Eames has his suspicions confirmed. “But it’s Afghanistan, in’t it? There’s drugs involved.”

Eames hums non-committedly. He’d worked out that much himself already, but if there’s another team on the job then there will be more money involved than he’s anticipated. This does not bode well when his extractor seems to be keeping the information to himself.

“Who’s on the team?” Eames asks, though he thinks he knows part of the answer.

Clive flicks some photos on the table and Eames picks them up. There’s Yi Ling, fairly young, making a name for herself as an extractor, though Eames hasn’t had a chance to work with her yet. The second picture, to no one’s surprise, is Arthur. The picture makes him look younger than he is; highlights the ridiculous curve of his ear. Arthur would hate it. Eames smiles and resolves to swipe it when he goes. The final member of the team Eames has worked with before. Gunter. A joyless German architect, and, in his sixties, one of the few old men of dreamshare. 

Eames frowns. Arthur knows Gunter’s less-than-stellar reputation as well as Eames himself, and he can’t understand why Arthur would take this job. He wonders if the powers-that-be would let him replace Clive with Arthur. He wonders again if Arthur would join them.

“So?” Eames looks up and finds that Clive is glaring at him with barely concealed contempt. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Eames shrugs. “I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he says. “There’s another team on the job so we need to move faster. Am I missing something?”

Clive huffs. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he says. “We’re trying to bring this godforsaken land some bloody democracy and freedom, and those little shits are trying to make a quick buck.” 

Eames, with a good fifteen years on Clive, nods sympathetically and goes to make him a cup of tea. He doesn’t believe that what they’re doing is any different, but it’s been given enough of a political veneer to make them seem respectable. He carefully over-sugars Clive’s tea – the boy will learn, but there’s no reason Eames has to enjoy being part of the process. 

\--

Clive doesn’t shut up about the “Americans” for the rest of the day, so Eames feels he’s earned the drink he goes for after work. 

He finds a hotel where he’s unlikely to be kidnapped, establishes a rapport with the barman, and settles in for a long evening. 

He’s pleased but not surprised in the least when Arthur turns up before he’s finished his second pint. Eames nods at the barman, who sends a drink over for Arthur. Arthur pulls a face, but he sips at the Guinness gamely while Eames hides a smirk in his pint. 

It’s companionable, this silence between them, just what Eames needs after Clive’s bitching. More than that, he enjoys Arthur’s company. He could say it was the pleasure of seeing a familiar face in a strange country, but even if Eames is a liar by birth and talent and profession and choice, he makes a point of never lying to himself. 

It’s been a long while since he’s even considered lying to himself about Arthur, so when Arthur puts his empty glass down on the table and raises an eyebrow in enquiry, Eames just shrugs and follows. 

The hotel’s rooms have seen better days, and Arthur has made himself at home in his room. There’s a bottle of single malt on the bedside table and Arthur swills out the glass that’s holding his toothbrush before offering it to Eames. 

“Cheers,” Eames says, as Arthur pours him a decently generous measure. 

“Not a problem.” Arthur flings himself on the bed, loose-limbed as he only is when he thinks no one is watching. Eames sits carefully on the rickety desk chair. Outside the window the lights of Kabul spread out, glimmering valiantly in the darkness of the night. 

Eames sips his whiskey while Arthur watches him with an expression that could be curious, could be contemplative. 

“So,” Eames says at last, when half his drink is gone and he can feel the silence pressing on his skin. “Are you ready to kill Gunter yet?” 

Arthur shrugs. “Was it a coincidence you came to drink in the bar in my hotel?” 

“I asked first,” Eames says. “I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

Arthur laughs at that. “Eames,” he says. “You lie easier than you breathe. Also, we’re not seven.”

Eames waves his glass at Arthur in acknowledgement. “In that case, no. I didn’t know this was your hotel,” he says. “Though I was hoping it was and would have tried the other hotels later in the week if it hadn’t been.” 

Arthur nods, like this is what he expected to hear, and Eames feels a burn of irritation that Arthur might not believe him. 

“Yes,” Arthur says, and Eames blinks, trying to remember what he’s saying yes to. Arthur smiles at his expression and sits up. “Yes,” he says again. “I am ready to kill Gunter.” He tops off his glass. “I have a list of ways I would do it as well.” 

Eames smiles at that. He has a secret fondness for Arthur’s list, and has a small collection of them, mementos of jobs where Arthur hadn’t guarded his moleskin and had tolerated Eames’s magpie tendencies. 

“Guns, knives, crocodiles?” he guesses, and Arthur actually dimples at him. 

“Grenade launcher, machete, shark,” he replies, and Eames almost believes him. He wonders if he can get the list, even though they’re not sharing a team. 

“What about yours?” Arthur asks. “Is he even old enough to be allowed out on his own?”

“Not even close,” Eames says. He isn’t surprised that Arthur knows about Clive. “His pimples still have acne.” 

Arthur nods. He’s looking out the window, so Eames can let himself watch. He dwells on the line of Arthur’s neck, the dip – just visible under the open collar of Arthur’s shirt – of his suprasternal notch. 

“So that’s why you’re drinking alone?” Arthur asks, and Eames wonders if he’s been caught looking. If he has, Arthur doesn’t seem ruffled by the knowledge. 

“Tonight,” he says. “I played cards with the NCOs the past couple of nights.” He shrugs. “There’s only so much even I can afford to lose at cards.”

Arthur looks incredulous at that, and Eames feels something warm bloom in the pit of his stomach. He can’t remember the last time someone knew him as well as this. 

“It’s important,” he says. “To be a good loser.” And Arthur nods, making a noise like Eames has just answered an important question. 

It makes Eames nervous. The room suddenly feels too small; Arthur’s attention too heated. He wants to get out – to go back to base before he reveals too much, says something that will give Arthur the final piece of the picture and let him strip Eames of his masks. 

He drains his glass and stands up. Arthur tracks him with his eyes, but his expression doesn’t flicker. 

“I should head off,” Eames says, resisting the urge to shuffle his feet. “Early day tomorrow and all that.”

Arthur pours himself another glass. “Sure,” he says, and takes a sip. Eames watches the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“You here for a few days?” he asks, and Arthur nods. “So we can do this again, yeah?”

Arthur nods again and Eames pauses by the door, not quite sure what he’s waiting for. It makes Arthur smile, soft and a little bit tired. 

“Goodnight, Mr Eames,” he says. “May your dreams bring you everything you desire.”

Eames flees. 

\--

Two days later, Arthur vanishes.

Eames only finds out because Clive’s smugness knows no bounds.

It takes him about twenty-three minutes to decide what to do, and another three hours to talk Robbie into letting him.

Arthur’s team, it turns out, have been working from a small flat in the market district of the city. The carpet on the stairs is worn, brown with age and neglect, and the light switches are black with the accumulated grime of a thousand fingers. Eames grimaces and wonders again why Arthur took this job.

Gunter has a gun pointed at him before he’s even finished climbing the stairs.

“What do you want?” he asks, the expression on his face hostile.

“I heard you mislaid your point man,” Eames says. “And I thought you might appreciate a hand in recovering him.”

Gunter grunts, and though he lowers the gun, he does not put it away.

“Come in then,” he says, and Eames does.

Yi Ling is frowning over a map when he enters the room, but she looks up straight away.

“Mr Eames?” she says, the cadence of her words a question. “You have heard something about Arthur?”

“Only that he’s missing.” Eames takes a seat at the table opposite her, leaving Gunter glowering by the door. “I hoped you had more information.”

Yi Ling shrugs. “Nothing,” she says. “Gunter thinks he’ll find his own way back.”

“Leave the man alone,” Gunter says. “He knows his job, and he won’t thank any of us for meddling.”

Eames feels anger coil in his gut. “And if he’s in trouble?” he asks. “What then?”

“Then he isn’t as good as his reputation says he is.”

Eames fixes Gunter with a blank stare. “And this is how you run a team?”

Gunter shrugs. “Do your job or get out. That’s what I say.”

Eames turns to Yi Ling. “You know, my dear,” he says, conversationally avuncular. “There are other ways of working. Given your reputation, I would suggest that you seek those out before it’s too late.”

Behind him Gunter grunts. “You would do differently?” he asks. “You would risk your life because a point man doesn’t know his job?”

“I would assume,” Eames replies, as much dignity in his words as he can manage, “that you bring a team on a job like this for a reason, and one of those reasons is to watch each other’s backs.”

Gunter smiles, nothing pleasant in his expression at all. “In that case,” he says, “I suggest you run your team that way, boy, and leave me run my team the way I choose.”

Eames stands up. “Too late,” he says. “Arthur is off your team, effective now, and on mine.” He fixes Yi Ling with a look. “You can join me too, or you can get out of Kabul, your choice. In either case, I would very much appreciate it if you could let me know what Arthur was working on when he vanished.”

Yi Ling swallows. “He was following the mark,” she says, darting a glance at Gunter. “He missed a call in on Monday, and we still haven’t heard from him. I…” She looks at Gunter again. “I think I will join your team.”

“Good girl.” He gestures to the maps spread out on the table. “You have an approximate location?” She nods, and points. “Good, then get your stuff together and I’ll drop you off at the base before I go find Arthur.”

He expects the click of the gun’s safety before he hears it, and he smiles as he turns, letting some of the anger he’s feeling show in his eyes.

“Really?” he asks Gunter. “You want to play this game?”

He smiles wider, feral, hoping that Gunter takes him up on the challenge, but he doesn’t. He lowers the gun and spits on the carpet.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he says. “You’re welcome to them.”

Eames nods, and waits for Yi Ling to gather her maps and notes, and to tuck a headscarf around her head. He lets her walk down the stairs before him, and although the skin between his shoulder blades itches the whole way down, Gunter doesn’t say another word.

Yi Ling is shaking slightly as they exit the building and he knocks his shoulder into her, as much physical contact as he’s willing to show her in public here. “Cheer up, kid,” he says in an undertone. “You’re working on the side of the angels now.”

Her laughter is startling and lovely, and he can feel his tension ease slightly. He’s wound tight though, and can’t relax properly. Not until he’s doing something. Not until he’s found Arthur again.

\--

Robbie turns out to be oddly sympathetic to Eames. At least, he gives him a pitying look along with the weapons, ammo, and surveillance information.

“You know you’re on your own for this?” he asks as he helps Eames load everything into a Range Rover.

“Yeah,” Eames says, checking he’s got enough water and fuel. “Mercenary, stole your stuff, acting off my own bat. Got it.”

“That said…” Robbie grins and Eames remembers why this guy is one of his actual mates. “You get into trouble and you call me, right? I’m probably owed a bit of leave, and I’m sure some of the boys are too.”

Eames grins. “They’re just worried they’ll have to work overtime without me to whip at poker.”

Robbie punches him in the arm. “Yeah,” he says. “Right.” He looks at Eames for a second, the smile slipping from his face. “When you find your boy, bring him back here, right?” He thrusts a folded bit of paper into Eames’s hand. “There’s medical supplies there, food, beds. It might take a day or two for things to calm down, and you don’t know what state he’ll be in.”

Eames swallows and puts the paper in his pocket. He’s thought of this of course he has, but…

“Cheers, mate,” he says, blinking against the tears in his eyes. There are reasons why he took this job, and this is the main one. “I owe you one.”

“Nah.” Robbie looks downright fond. “S’what Sophia would have wanted me to do.”

“Maybe.” Eames shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you had to do it.”

He gets into the car before he can make this even more maudlin, and sketches a vague salute at Robbie as he drives off. He hadn’t dared hope for even this much help. Now all he has to do is find out where they’re holding Arthur and get him back. Simple.

\--

It doesn’t actually take him that long to find out where Arthur is. Eames can be _persuasive_ when he sets his mind to it, and a contact unearths a lead, which in turn leads to some questions, which get the answers that Eames wants.

Not that they put his mind at rest though. As Eames drives to the address he’s been given, deep in the hills outside Khanabad, he’s worried.

It’s not that he thinks Arthur is some delicate maiden – far from it. But he’s been out here for days now, on his own, and his team were blatantly uninterested in his fate. Eames can only hope that the men holding him are hoping for some eventual ransom from some unspecified family in the States – they’ll know by now he won’t be getting any from his colleagues.

Arthur, he’s well aware, can hold his own under any circumstances you care to name, but still. These are men who don’t mess around and the lexicon of violence over here is in a different language to the one Arthur usually speaks.

Eames drives fast, and in the end it only takes him four hours to reach the general area where Arthur’s being kept. He parks the Range Rover, drags a camo over it, and hopes that it’s far enough from the road that it will lie undiscovered until he can get back to it. Then he sets out on foot, hiking the next five miles as the evening air grows cold around him.

There will be two men here, Eames knows from his questioning, and they are replaced in shifts that cover a few days, but when he gets close enough to see the house they’re keeping Arthur in it is dark and looks deserted.

Eames watches it for an hour, but there is no movement, and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He takes his time approaching it, but there is nothing. No movement, no sound. Only the quiet house and a black four-by-four outside it. He’s careful where he treads. Places like this tend to be booby-trapped, and the last thing he needs is to get injured while he’s on his own.

There’s nothing though, and when he finally gets as far as the door, the house is still silent and dark. He nudges the door open with his boot, Heckler & Koch submachine gun in his hands, but still… silence. There’s a smell though – one that he knows intimately – and his heart flips.

Eames has been part of too many jobs gone wrong to mistake the smell of blood, and the smell in the hallway is dense, cloying. He takes a step inside and hears the carpet squelch under his foot.

There’s nothing alive in the house – he can feel it in his bones – but he steels himself to check, hoping against hope that Arthur has been taken by a rival gang and isn’t one of the bodies he can smell.

Whoever – whatever – did this, it was brutal and bloody. He finds a body in a makeshift living room. Its throat has been ripped out, and if Eames was a different person he would gag at the sight. He isn’t though, and he presses on, finding another body in a hallway that leads to bedrooms. Again, its throat has been torn out – all that’s left is gore and a spray of blood that plays testament to its last painful breaths.

He can barely breathe. The smell is cloying-sweet and it’s only a last, desperate hope that has him kick open the door to the first bedroom.

It’s empty, and Eames moves on, trying to tuck away all the inconvenient emotions that threaten him. He kicks open the next door and has to bite back a sob because, yes, there’s Arthur. Naked, but so blood covered that Eames has to look twice to be sure. His arms are still tied behind his back, and he’s facing away, and Eames… he can’t. He can’t and can’t and has to. So he walks over, lets his gun drop by the door, kneels beside Arthur’s body and reaches out.

It is, as it happens, a mistake – the first Eames has made this evening – because Arthur flips himself over and launches himself at Eames, and neither the blood nor the fact his arms are tied behind his back seems to have an impact on just how lethal Arthur can be. 

He’s tired though, and the ropes are having an impact. Eames wedges the side of his hand into Arthur’s mouth, and though the bite hurts, well… at least it’s not his neck so he’s better off than the bastards who’d thought they could hold Arthur captive.

It helps that he knows Arthur’s fighting style, that he’s bigger than Arthur, and that somewhere, under the panic and adrenaline, Arthur recognises his voice.

So he pushes Arthur down, incapacitates him, uses his bulk to weigh him down, and talks – strings of nonsense, but in a voice that Arthur knows – until Arthur stills underneath him.

“Arthur?” He pulls his hand from out of Arthur’s mouth and winces at the bloody mess Arthur’s made of it. “You in there, darling?”

It’s a calculated risk. Arthur is vicious when he’s cornered and Eames doesn’t know if he’s calmed down enough to know that he’s being rescued, or if he’s playing possum. He’s flipped Arthur over though, is holding him face down with his full weight against where Arthur’s wrists are tied at the small of his back, his knees between Arthur’s spread thighs. Even if there’s fight left in Arthur, he’ll have a hard time breaking Eames’s hold.

Arthur makes an indistinct noise that could be Eames’s name, and Eames shifts a hand so it lies gently between Arthur’s shoulder-blades.

“Are you going to go for me if I untie you?” He pets Arthur, feels him draw in a shuddering breath.

“Depends.” Arthur’s voice is hoarse, but it’s collected, and Eames sags with relief.

“On what?” he asks, but he’s grinning. Arthur _knows_ it’s him. He’s in time.

“On whether you’re another hallucination,” Arthur says, and, oh. Eames flips him over and starts fumbling with the knots. It might make more sense to do it the other way round, but they deal too much with the coin of unreality for Eames to waste a second here. 

“It’s me,” he says. “And it’s real.” He shrugs at Arthur. “Though I guess a projection would say that?”

The tightness round Arthur’s eyes tells him everything he needs to know. 

“You know,” he says, working on the knots that bind Arthur as fast as he can. “I always thought we’d fail. In incepting Fisher.”

“You did?” It can’t be news to Arthur, but he plays along. 

“Yeah.” He tries to ignore how he’s pressed up against Arthur. Tries to ignore everything apart from the knots. “You weren’t there – in my level – but…” He swallows, wishing he hadn’t gone this route. “When I was on my own, I just knew. Cobb would fuck it all up.”

Arthur snorts. “How long were you there?” he asks. “A few minutes? Hours?” Eames has managed to get purchase on the central knot and doesn’t answer. “I was there for _days_ , Eames.”

“Ah.” Eames finally, finally makes headway and pulls the first knot free. “But you were always better at dealing with that shit than I am.”

“Fine.” Arthur huffs out a breath across Eames’s neck. “You’re real. There’s no chance a projection would admit that.”

“What?” Eames manages to free a second knot and grins in triumph. The ropes are substantially looser now. “You mean your projections of me aren’t all subjugated minions you use to get your own back?”

“No.” Arthur’s breath is warm on Eames’s skin when he talks. “That’s not my kinda thing at all.”

“I should be relieved, darling, but instead I’m incredibly jealous of these masterful projections of yours who never have to admit weakness.” He manages to loosen one rope totally and kneels up to pull it free. “How will I ever live up to them?”

He looks down at Arthur, blood-stained and obviously still jittery. He’s also hard, though that means nothing. Eames knows the many weird ways your body will betray you under stress; he’s experienced most of them first hand.

The thing to do here, he decides, is to take control. The less Arthur has to think, the calmer he’ll get, and the easier it’ll be to get out of here and start putting Arthur back together.

“Right,” he says, tossing the rope to one side. “This is how it’s going to go. I’m going to get you onto the bed, find your clothes, and then we’re getting out of here.” He grins down at Arthur. “Objections?”

Arthur shakes his head, so Eames manhandles him upright. “Stop it,” he says, as he feels Arthur struggling to support himself because, seriously, Arthur’s been tied up too long for his limbs to obey him properly now they’re partially free.

Surprisingly Arthur obeys, stilling immediately, and Eames sits him on the edge of the bed, frowning when he realises that there’s a mess of knots round Arthur’s ankles still to deal with.

“Good lad,” he says, kneeling down to deal with them. Now the adrenaline has dropped and Arthur is more himself, he feels more comfortable using a knife to cut through them. “You just stay here, right? I need to find you some clothes.”

Arthur nods his head. He’s pulled the final ropes free and is rubbing at his wrists. Eames winces in empathy as he leaves the room. It’s a bugger when your hands have been tied like that, and he’ll need to check Arthur when they get to the safehouse in case the loss of circulation has caused any problems.

For now the priority is to get out of here. Fortunately there are a couple of t-shirts and some black combat trousers in the first bedroom, so Eames is spared the unpleasantness of stripping the corpses for their clothes. He’d have done it, he realises as he heads back to Arthur. In fact, there’s not much he wouldn’t do.

It’s a familiar thought, and he’s used to repressing it, so he does. It doesn’t stop the flash of fondness though when he gets back to the bedroom and sees that Arthur has managed to get the gun that Eames dropped by the door.

“Arms up,” he says. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Arthur complies, putting the gun next to him and letting Eames dress him. He hisses a bit when Eames pulls his arms through the sleeves, and Eames resolves to give him a proper check over when they’re safe. For now, the best he can do is to help Arthur in to the trousers and slap Arthur’s hands away when he goes to do them up.

“I’ve got it,” he says, because it won’t make Arthur feel any better if he realises his fingers are too clumsy to do something as simple as this. “How’re your legs doing?”

“Shaky,” Arthur says, frowning. “They had me hogtied to begin with, and…”

He trails off, and Eames knows how much he hates admitting weakness. It raises a problem though. The Range Rover is a fair distance away and there is no way Arthur will be able to walk that far. He’ll work something out, he decides, but they need to get out of here fast, so he slings Arthur’s arm around his shoulder, gets the gun from the bed, and makes for the door. 

They’re moving slowly and awkwardly, and Arthur huffs in exasperation. 

“Jesus.” His voice is rough, and Eames thinks he’s trying to hide his frustration with himself behind a façade of anger. “Do you want us to get caught, Eames?”

Eames adjusts his arm round Arthur’s waist and soldiers on. Arthur’s no lightweight. Eames has seen people in bars pick fights with him, assuming that because he’s slim and well dressed that he’ll be an easy mark. Eames has seen those people walk away from the fight with a valuable lesson about how a slim build can hide a lot of wiry muscle. Also with their teeth in their hands. And, yeah, Eames could probably bench press Arthur if he tried, but they’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so he sets a steady pace. 

Arthur barely glances at the body outside the room, though he kicks at the one in the lounge as they pass it. Eames doesn’t ask – he’ll get the full story later, or he won’t. He’s not about to push Arthur for it here. 

They’re just about in the entrance hall when Eames hears a noise. It’s nothing loud, but he doesn’t hesitate, just swings the gun up and fires. There’s a guttural noise, and a man dressed like the others in the house slumps to the floor, blocking the doorway. He’s dead – Eames doesn’t need to check, it was a headshot after all – but it’s not good news. The higher the body count climbs, the more likely it is that they’ll be discovered. 

Eames pauses, but there are no shouts – no noises at all. He looks down at the body and the man had been carrying a bag of what looks like food in one hand, and his car keys in the other. A supply run then. 

“Gonna take his car?” Arthur asks, and Eames nods.

“Waste not, want not,” he says letting go of Arthur so he can snag the keys from the guy’s hand. 

Arthur’s steadier on his feet now, his circulation returning as he moves, but Eames still has to help him over the body in the doorway, and keeps his arm around him as they make their way as fast as they can to the car. It’s another jeep, inevitable perhaps in this terrain, but it’s nippy enough and frankly Eames doesn’t care about anything else. 

He tries to keep the pace steady, aware of Arthur’s hisses of discomfort when they hit potholes, but it’s getting dark, and everything in Eames is screaming to get out of here. 

There’s no point in subterfuge at this stage, so he drives up to the Range Rover, still safe and secure where he left it, and abandons the jeep, doors open, keys flung into the shrubby undergrowth. 

He helps Arthur into the Range Rover, leaning over to buckle him in despite the look on Arthur’s face. Then he rummages in the boot for some painkillers and water, and tosses them to Arthur as he climbs into the driver’s seat. 

“Take those,” he says, and breathes a sigh of relief as the Range Rover starts on the first attempt. “They’re not much, but they’ll hold you till we get to the safehouse.” 

Arthur grunts, but complies, and like every other time Eames has seen him take pills, he dry swallows them and pauses for a second before he drinks. 

It’s familiar and it makes Eames smile, a small thing that warms him as the road unrolls in front of them. 

The safehouse is in Pol-e-Khomri, a small mountain town about an hour and a half’s drive back towards Kabul, and by the time they get there Arthur is asleep, his brows drawn down in discomfort even as he snores softly. 

Eames kills the engine, and wonders how best to wake him up without scaring him, but Arthur is apparently deeply in touch with his inner child, and without the noise of the engine he stirs and blinks awake. 

“We here?” His voice is sleep-rough and it makes Eames smile. 

“Yeah, should be.” Eames squints out the window. “I’m going to check it out though.”

Arthur sniggers under his breath. “Whatever. Don’t be long,” he yawns and blinks at Eames sleepily. “I’m about to fall asleep again.”

Eames valiantly bites back all the comments about Sleeping Beauty and climbs out into the cold night air. It’s the right building sure enough, the key works perfectly, and Robbie has done him proud. It’s clean, secure, and there’s enough food, medical supplies, and weaponry for Eames to relax properly for the first time since he’d heard Arthur was missing. 

Arthur isn’t asleep when Eames goes back out, but his eyes are closed and he’s resting his forehead on the window. Eames taps the glass with his fingernails and Arthur sighs. 

“I could just stay here,” he says when Eames opens the door. “It’s warm and I’m comfortable and I don’t have shoes.” 

Eames looks down. It’s true – Arthur doesn’t have shoes and his feet are covered in dirt and blood from where Arthur had walked from the room to the jeep and from the jeep to the Range Rover. It must have hurt, and the thought of this tiny hurt on top of everything else Arthur has suffered through makes Eames want to cry. 

“C’mon,” he says, and he slides one arm under Arthur’s knees, the other round his waist. “Let’s get you inside.”

Arthur makes a stifled sound when Eames lifts him from the car, and it takes a second for Eames to realise that it’s a bitten off laugh. 

“You’ve seen too many Kevin Costner films,” he mutters into Eames’s ear, and Eames readjusts his grip and hums that horrible song as he carries him into the house. 

He leaves Arthur on the bed while he pops out and grabs the gear from the Range Rover. He’s torn between hiding the car and leaving it here in case they need to make a sharp exit. In the end he decides to leave it – he can move it in the morning when he’s got the lay of the land and knows when they can head back to Kabul. 

By the time he gets back in, Arthur is sprawled on the bed, his arm over his eyes, and obviously intending to fall back asleep.

“Oy.” Eames nudges him and Arthur wriggles, still awake, but clearly wanting to be left alone. “Arthur. Arthur?” He pokes him in the ribs. “Let’s get you checked over, yeah? Then you can sleep all you like.” 

“Don’t wanna.” Arthur tries to wriggle away from Eames while staying on the bed. “M’fine. Just let me sleep.”

Eames sighs. He gets why Arthur wants to be left alone, he really does, but there was a lot of blood and he needs to be sure that only a manageable amount of it is Arthur’s before he’ll let him flake out. 

He knows Arthur in this mood though, and there’s no arguing with him, so he bends down and lifts Arthur off the bed, only laughing a little at the outraged kitten noise that Arthur makes. 

“We’re doing this,” he says, sitting Arthur onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Like it or lump it, princess.”

“Seriously,” Arthur says, sounding more like his usual grumpy self. “I’m _fine_ , Eames. Just leave me alone.”

He starts to push himself off the chair, and Eames… well. Eames hasn’t slept in about 24 hours, and has been on edge for even longer. All the relief he feels about finding Arthur is coiling awkwardly in his stomach and is turning into something complicated. 

It snaps when Arthur staggers to his feet, and Eames grabs him by the scruff of his neck. 

“No,” he says in his best authoritarian voice, the one he only uses when there’s no other option because it reveals too much of who he really is. “Not a chance.” He makes eye contact with Arthur. “You will let me check you over and clean you up willingly, or, by god, I will tie you up again and do it without your consent.” He lets his hand tighten on Arthur’s neck, lets him see that the threat is serious. “Understand?” 

Arthur nods, but his expression is assessing rather than cowed, and it makes Eames sharper than he means to be. 

“Strip,” he says, taking a step back. “If you’re fine, prove it to me.”

For a second he thinks Arthur will argue, but then he shrugs and pulls off his t-shirt. He’s a mess underneath. The blood has started to flake and underneath it Eames can see the bloom of bruises. 

He needs to get Arthur clean. There’s a bowl in the sink for washing up, and he starts to fill it with warm water while he looks for a washcloth. When he turns back to check, Arthur is stood, naked, shoulders back and defiance writ large over every inch of his face. 

“Better,” he says, because he can’t back down in the face of that look. “Get a towel and stand on it.”

Arthur nods, just the tiniest amount, barely an incline of his jaw, and complies. Despite his injuries his stance is relaxed, legs apart, shoulders back, arms loose against his sides. 

It makes Eames take a sharp breath, and he turns back to the sink to get the bowl to cover his confusion. 

The water is a perfect temperature, so he carries the bowl over to Arthur. He could start anywhere – Arthur’s back, his arms, his feet – but that would be backing down, and Eames _can’t_. 

He stands directly in front of Arthur and holds eye contact as he brings his hands up and starts running them through Arthur’s hair. 

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, voice rough, “but otherwise you’re not to move.”

Arthur doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge him, but when Eames checks he has the slightest smirk on his lips, and it’s so perfectly him that Eames starts to let himself relax into this. 

He runs his hands systematically over the curves and bumps of Arthur’s head. He finds a gash behind Arthur’s left ear, and so he cleans it with gentle strokes of the cloth. Arthur relaxes as he works, lets his head fall forward onto Eames’s shoulder, and sighs, almost happily. 

It’s relaxing. Eames cleans Arthur’s skin, finds a wound or an injury, repairs it as best he can, moves on. Repetitive, soothing. None of the injuries are serious – most of the blood has come from Arthur’s escape attempt – though there’s a bruise high on Arthur’s cheekbone that’s already blooming into a black eye. 

Eames replenishes the water every time it gets too awful, and Arthur waits patiently, just the slightest of smiles on his lips. 

It’s oddly intimate, caring for someone like this. Arthur is silent, and pliant as Eames works. He occasionally hisses as Eames causes some small pain – when he rubs salve onto the rope burns that mark Arthur’s wrists and ankles, or when Eames uses butterfly stitches to close a gash on his shin. Otherwise he complies completely with Eames commands, moving and kneeling when asked, exposing any part of himself that Eames requests. 

It takes a while – Eames isn’t sure how long – but eventually Arthur is clean. Eames can count twenty, thirty marks that he’s tended to, but there is nothing serious. He finishes washing Arthur’s feet, cleaning all that blood and dirt away as gently as he can, then he dries them, resting each one in turn on this thigh while Arthur balances with surprising skill. 

He puts the towel aside when they’re dry, gently places Arthur’s foot back on the ground, then places his hand on Arthur’s thigh and looks up at Arthur. 

Arthur’s watching him, and when Eames meets his eyes he reaches down and cups Eames’s face. Eames doesn’t break eye contact; just turns his head slightly and kisses the palm of Arthur’s hand. He’s scared, stripped of his masks and words, and even though it’s Arthur who’s naked, Eames feels like he’s exposed, flayed open for Arthur’s gaze. 

Arthur realises, of course he does. He caresses Eames’s lips with his thumb, presses his fingertips into the soft skin under Eames’s jaw. 

“I came over here for you,” he says. “You’d taken a job here, and it wasn’t a team I knew, and I thought you might need me.” He tips Eames’s face up, grimaces. “I wasn’t going to say anything, just…” He shrugs, gestures to the room that Eames has paid for with probably every favour he’s owed, to the pile of wrappings that Eames has discarded while he spent hours bandaging Arthur. “I realised this might be mutual.”

It’s morbidly, horribly funny, and Eames lets out a bark of laughter that breaks somewhere in the middle. He sags forward, rests his head against Arthur’s stomach, and wraps his arms round Arthur’s thighs. He feels Arthur’s fingers tangled in his hair, but he can’t move. He’s shaking with something, laughter or tears or some bastard hybrid of the two, and Arthur is the only thing that is anchoring him. 

It doesn’t take long for the shaking to subside, and he’d be embarrassed except for Arthur sinking to his knees and kissing him. It’s hungry and demanding and so perfectly _Arthur_ that Eames thinks he could do this forever, but then he tastes blood and remembers that Arthur is hurt, that he needs rest, that they have _time_ for this now. 

He pulls back, and Arthur is smiling at him. 

“Come to bed?” he says, and when Arthur nods, he stands up, pulls Arthur to his feet, leads him to the bed. 

It’s a bit too narrow for two people, but Arthur presses himself close to Eames, lets Eames wrap him in his arms. He falls asleep fairly quickly, his breath slowing and calming, his head resting on Eames’s chest.

Eames lies awake, listening to the sounds of this unfamiliar place, watching the patterns and shadows its lights cast on the wall of their room, letting his body shift and adjust until it’s used to Arthur’s weight and shape and heat. 

He thinks about endings, and beginnings; of lies and truths and how to tell the difference; he thinks about tomorrow, and what he will tell Robbie, what he will tell Arthur. He rather thinks he will tell the truth, for once, safer with them both than he’s been with anyone in a long while. 

“You’re overthinking.” Arthur’s voice is muffled by Eames’s chest, and he strokes a sleep-warm finger down Eames’s side. “Go to sleep, Eames.”

So, Eames presses a kiss into Arthur’s hair and relaxes. Lets the rhythm of Arthur’s breath drag him towards sleep. Lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inception Reverse Bang and for the amazing [This Ain’t A Scene](http://archiveofourown.org/works/980786) by the wonderful Kansouame. Go see it, and listen to the fanmix she posted because it is perfection. 
> 
> It’s always such a joy to work with talented and creative people, and I am so very lucky to have so many of them in my life. And it’s a real joy to be able to take part in this fest. *cheers on Inception fandom*
> 
> My thanks and love to Kansouame for cheering me on and inspiring me, and to Mizzy2k and Wlprocrastinate for their invaluable beta reading skills. Any mistakes, as always, are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Lyrics quoted at the start and the title are from _This Ain’t A Scene_ by Fall Out Boy.


End file.
